


PDA, Assassin Style

by Zinnith



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Multi, Phil's assassins are not cats, dark and fluffy, no really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-07 15:37:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zinnith/pseuds/Zinnith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not that Phil is actually comparing his agents to <i>cats</i>. He’d never hear the end of it. But... well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	PDA, Assassin Style

**Author's Note:**

> Repost from [avengerkink](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/6021.html?thread=9372293#t9372293).
> 
>  **Trigger warning:** Contains torture and mutilation of a bad guy.

Phil is cat-less at the moment, but he has owned several (or more accurately, they have owned him) in the past. His current job really doesn’t mix well with pets, but he’s found himself missing them less than anticipated. 

He’d never say it out loud, and certainly not where either Clint or Natasha could overhear, but the two of them might have something to do with it.

It’s not that he’s actually comparing his agents to _cats_. He’d never hear the end of it. But... well. There is an undeniable similarity that Phil simply can’t ignore, at least not in his more unguarded moments.

Clint, for example, has a way of always putting his feet in Phil’s lap _on top_ of whatever he happens to be reading at the time, vying for attention. Natasha likes to drape herself over Phil’s furniture in various boneless positions, sleek and elegant. Clint enjoys dozing in the sun when he gets the chance while Natasha prefers sleeping in small, dark spaces. They will both wake up at the sound of a needle dropping on the floor. 

As for other bedroom activities, well, it can get a little rough, and there are times when Phil has to spend a couple of days hiding love-bites and scratches and bruised wrists. He doesn’t mind. Sometimes, they simply like to mark him as _theirs_ , and it’s not like he doesn’t have his own ways of claiming ownership.

Still, there are little things that will never let him forget that they are both predators, exquisitely lethal, both in their own inimitable ways. 

He’s grown used to being under constant surveillance, knows more than well that the fond stalking is their way of showing that they care, that they’re looking out for him.

“Are we being watched?” Jasper Sitwell asks one day when he and Phil are having an impromptu lunch meeting in the SHIELD cafeteria. The line of his shoulders is tense and uncomfortable and he’s spent the past half hour trying to look behind him without actually moving his head.

Phil looks up. He’s hardly noticed the familiar weight of friendly eyes on him. “Barton and Romanoff are both stateside at the moment, so yes, probably,” he answers with a shrug. 

“That’s just creepy,” Sitwell mutters, barely managing to hold back a shudder. He keeps glancing over his shoulder through the entire lunch hour.

Sitwell is a dog person.

It becomes even more apparent in other situations. For example, after a mission goes horribly wrong and Phil gets to spend two days enjoying the questionable hospitality of a South American arms dealer. Clint and Natasha are running an op of their own elsewhere, Phil _knows_ this, but he still can’t help the sharp pang of disappointment when the rescue arrives in the form of a SHIELD tactical team instead of his two favorite lunatics. To add insult to injury, Chavez manages to evade capture. Clint and Natasha would never have allowed that. 

He’s not sure how the information about his captivity reaches them, but when Phil returns to his office after his brief stay in medical, there’s a small package wrapped in brown paper and string on his desk.

Phil sits down in his office chair, wincing as the movement jars his broken ribs. It’s not serious, just painful and bothersome. Phil has had worse. He’s _done_ worse. Doesn’t mean it’s not uncomfortable.

He picks up the package and turns it over. It’s very light and there’s a little rattle when he shakes it. Phil frowns and reaches for a pair of scissors to cut the string and open it up. 

Inside the little box is a piece of dry ice. On the ice lies a pair of severed thumbs.

It’s probably a testament to the overall strangeness of Phil’s life that he doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. Instead, he fishes out a little slip of paper from underneath one of the thumbs. There’s an internet address scribbled down on it and Phil would recognize that chicken feet scrawl anywhere.

He starts his computer and enters the URL. It takes him to a page where the only content is a streamed video.

The last time Phil saw Marco Chavez, the man was in the process of introducing his steel-toed boots to Phil’s ribcage. He’s changed a bit since then. To begin with, he seems to be missing a couple of thumbs. 

There are electric burns all over his torso and poorly bandaged arrow wounds in both legs and the terror on his face is palpable. Phil knows that look very well. That’s the expression people wear after they’ve spent approximately ten minutes underestimating the Black Widow and then finally realize that all the stories are _true_. That’s what people look like when they discover that underneath Hawkeye’s terrible jokes and easygoing demeanor is a man with a very impressive body count. 

It ought to be disturbing, but then Phil shifts in his chair and feels his ribs throb with pain, sharp and bright. He just can’t keep back a bit of malicious pleasure at the sight of the tied up man on the video.

He also can’t help but recall the pitiful little rodent carcasses his last cat used to drag in and leave on the kitchen floor, affectionate offerings disguised as tiny dead heaps of fur. 

The cats were usually happy with a good head-scratching and a bowl of tuna in return. When it comes to his assassins, Phil might have to get a little more creative.


End file.
